The man who was a boy, the boy who poses, left, otherleft, and stretched legs struck as a woman on screen, but only an aroused vagary of MaryBeforeJesus games. Sex on screen was a game that took no clockspace to learn, as he had no past to create head-chaos. A skull sans knowledge was never the job, just a lamb as skull. To attempt a passable knowhow of each border, born absent of thought, all the edges were roused to arms because of how strange the world could seem. Startled as a frame that could be taken as the slothenly sound of late luna chatwheels, the essence was but a stamp of pallor sheets to most, though form was run aground over shadows portrayed. (Cl_ck)

     The control of a man sans ego, the safety of a woman, and the allure of a MaryBeforeGod, was nearly torn on the appeal of Old. There lay all personal nature amongst a bedroom where boredom was less heavy throughout deeds of other's wantYESwants. Presence for them was that much more, a gathered taboo and cultural abstract bounced off another for a chance at the honesty of anonymous pleasure. Held true to the base of femur, or was that supposed to rhyme for tryst?, where lowered attachments are meshed amongst the world so far away, beyond a fall of psyche, where that lovereflect gets to that wantrefract. An empty soul and a sense for the ghosts on every web bent for more than a form can grant them. (Cl_ck Clack)

     Step otherleft up folks, see the newest nonanalog form of our century, where the web turns the soul to a norm made to be pornography alone, sans taboo. The passage of premade markets for frames of reference and poses brand named, why just look at that poor soul otherleft here. No joy or measure of real torment to abhor, but one hour on a web pattern and random “people” demand nudeform as grand as Odysseus. The space amongst nonanalog cords lets organofpallor run rampant for them and the lunch wants of wound up “persons” be expelled. (Clack Cl_ck)

     Come everfastly! Watch the homoanalog form turn to two and confuse the skulls kept over a barrel of awe for non gender frames and senses unreasonably elevated. Now perhaps that long of a phrase would be too much for some “people.” Why, they may headbreak me as untrustworthy because my showmangloat plays self-eroded and unneeded. The terms accepted by such augmented men are hard to say matter-of-factly beyond “watch the camera,” but every now and then the seasqualls are meant to be deserted. Each squall leaves greater space between forms and more pressure falls to the core of barren chalkstreams.(Cl_ck)

     Each cluttered storm of cells gathers to watch, some chordwrapped to the man on stage, so as to know a greater scene than mere strokemanplop. Hours pass by and others seek the wallsroundwalls made of nonanalog temples and photonabodes. Some “people” stare and wonder for endurance's sake at the measure of stubborn character that grows upon methods that look only to the end, sans the means. (Clack)

     Haughty forms deemed as sans thought get more taboo as the days progress. Why, just otherleft now the nonanalog seeks out eyeshoots from beneath the cover of otherdark. A bedroom may set the scene, but the boy has yet to feel at ease. Form has yet to reflect prayers that comeunto them, pressed on the screen as second-hand clocks moan through seasons. The boy who was a man removes gender from the femure-and-above, matched up and subplopped, as Eros becomes the focus on boxglows. The formed man expresses only physerene waves beneath shades and skull, where a statuesque space poses safety away from the reach of sexual masses. Mashed beneath pallor and worry, the zero degree absence passes to body and evacuates love and affectongues to every soul who seeks safe passage to ecstasy. (Cl_ck)